Honor Among Thieves

by Ann Aguirre

  The guard had woken up my other cellmate too, and she sat up on the other bench, yawned, and shoved the lank hair away from her face. I had no taste for conversation, but my fellow inmate looked chatty and it’d be dumb as shit to shut my eyes until I knew something about her. While there was a camera above us in the corner, nobody could come fast enough to save me if she turned out to be dangerous, not just antisocial.

  “What’re you in for?” she asked, in the middle of a yawn.

  I met her challenging stare with a half smile. “Jacked a mobster’s daughter and killed one of his guys.”

  Laughter nearly doubled her over—loud, contagious bursts that made me almost join in. Almost. When she could breathe well enough to speak, she wheezed, “Sure, and I robbed the old coin exchange!”

  “Where’d you hide the loot?”

  “Look, don’t tell me and I won’t tell you. Fair deal.” She hesitated, then leaned over and extended an open hand. “Clarice.”

  I shook it. “Zara.”

  Evidently she took that as proof that I wouldn’t tear her throat out with my teeth, because she went back to sleep. I didn’t. Well, not until we’d covered another hour of an Honor who came from the Seychelles and liked to water-ski. I finally dropped off in sheer boredom.

  “Zara Cole?” I woke up with a start and found that I’d somehow missed the door opening. Across from me stood a new guard, thick with muscle. She didn’t look like she’d take any crap, either. Her gray uniform was crisp, hinting that she’d just come on duty.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’d learned to feign respect. People who wore uniforms seemed to like that.

  “You have quite a file.”

  “Aww, thanks!”

  “And a sense of humor, I see. You’ll find we have zero tolerance for bullshit here. Understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then follow me.”

  I looked back as she led the way and realized that somehow I’d managed to sleep through Clarice being taken out. The vid was in hour twenty of the Honors marathon.

  I really needed to work on my alertness. This place—this kind of place, anyway, with its signature peaceful scent being sprayed into the air, with the just barely audible calm music—lulled me into a sense of security I couldn’t afford.

  She took me to a windowless room and shut the door. “You know the drill, Miss Cole. Strip, shower, and scan, please.”

  Maybe it was the politeness that grated on me. Here we were, walls and bars, and she was still saying please. What a joke. But she was right: I knew the drill. Once she’d shut the door, I stripped off my kit and folded it up, then stood under the lukewarm shower. It was both bath and decontamination, and had a sharp, lemony scent to it that left a bitter, medicinal aftertaste. My curls started off cute, but I couldn’t look after them in the Zone, so they were fried from lack of conditioning, and this all-purpose cleaner wouldn’t do my hair any favors. Good behavior would get me toiletry upgrades; that was how they trained people to play nice in places like this.

  I came away clean, dried off, and stood with arms and legs spread for the scan. The mechanical voice that told me when it was over was polite.

  I’ll get tired of that quick.

  When the all-clear sounded, I went to the shelves and took out a thin undershirt, simple panties, baggy yellow pants with an elastic waist, a loose white shirt without buttons or ties, and flip-flops. There was also a thicker shirt that could be layered over the lighter one and a warm sweater in an ugly hot color too. Forget drones; I’d be visible from space.

  The guard opened the door and gave me a quick nod. “Thanks for your compliance.”

  “Thanks for not cavity searching,” I said brightly.

  She didn’t quite know how to take that, because she said, very seriously, “Your scan was clean. I didn’t need to.”

  We walked down a hall with doors spaced equidistant. They were all closed. My room was more of a cell once the door shut behind me: single bed, sink, toilet, small screen built into the wall. They’d given me slippers, though. I hadn’t worn slippers since I was six. They were the same color orange as the sweater. At least I’d match.

  “You have an hour before breakfast,” the guard said. “Welcome to Camp Kuna. You’ll be provided with your activity schedule after chow. You’ll be expected to complete all required socialization classes, exercise, therapy sessions, and work details. This isn’t punishment, this is—”

  “Preparation, yeah, I read the brochures,” I said. “Got it.”

  She gave me a long, level look, and I could tell she really had read my file. “Zara. We don’t give up on people. You understand that, right?”

  “Maybe you should,” I said, and sat down. The mattress was respectable, if not luxurious. I’d slept on piles of rags, by choice, but I had to admit mattresses were a comfort I wouldn’t turn down. Suddenly, despite the napping in the holding cell, I felt exhausted. “You said I have an hour?”

  She nodded. “Rest. I’ll come get you.”

  After she locked the door, I tried to detangle my short curls with my fingers. Helped some, but I needed products and a trim, stat. Giving up temporarily, I rolled onto my side and fell asleep in record time. I dreamed of flying. It was probably because of those damn Honor vids, but it felt . . . good. Free.

  When the guard roused me for breakfast, I came back to Earth hard, and it felt like the weight of gravity might suffocate me.

  My routine commenced exactly as the guard had described it: food, class, exercise, therapy, work. It lasted from sunrise to sunset, but the evenings were free, and we weren’t locked up in our rooms. Camp Kuna had a big common room filled with games and screens, though the games were all multiplayer; no zoning out on your own. If you wanted that, you had to read.

  I chose books, but that didn’t mean I got left alone. I was paging through a space fantasy that had started life as Honors fanfic before the author changed the names when someone plumped down in the chair beside me, put up her feet, and said, “I see you’re fitting in.”

  It was the girl from holding. She seemed cheerful, though she couldn’t have looked worse in these neon colors. Her light-brown hair was a wispy mess, and she brushed the flyaway strands back with a move that had to be automatic. “Clarice, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “And I’m still reading.”

  “You’ve got an A on your ID tag.”

  “So?”

  “Third-strike antisocial is what it means. They’re watching, you know. Seeing if you can make friends. So make one.”

  Clarice had an A at the start of the string of numbers that IDed her, too. We gave each other smiles that meant nothing, and she asked me about my book. We talked about how sick we were of seeing the Honors countdown, which was now winding down to the big week of announcements.

  “It’s bullshit,” Clarice said. “I think it’s all rigged anyway. Who gets picked? Rich folks, that’s who. You ever see somebody from the Lower Eight in there?”

  “Never. So you’re probably right.”

  “Besides, who’d want to go live on some ship and give all this up?” she deadpanned. “Three hots a day, fancy clothes . . .”

  “Education,” I put in.

  “And learning a trade? We don’t call this side of Detroit Paradise for nothing. So . . . you want to play a game?”

  “Want to read my book,” I said, though truthfully, I was skimming it because the Leviathan were pretty fascinating. “Are we done making friends now?”

  Friendship by appointment, for mutual benefit; the docs watched for loners and signed them up for special programs. Socialization. Neither of us needed that noise. Might have been screwed up, being fake friends, but at least it kept us in the middle of the road, rehab-wise.

  “Guess so,” she said. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “It’s a date.”

  I was really unlucky because my assigned mandatory therapist hadn’t burned out yet. I was used to overworked drones, but instead, when I s
tepped into the warm, friendly office he kept on the nicer side of Camp Kuna, I knew I was in for it. My therapist—Dr. Yu—was a youngish man who dressed casual without making it look like he was trying too hard, and he didn’t look up as I walked in. He was too busy scanning records.

  “Yeah, no hurry, I’ll wait.” I kicked back with a thump on the soft cushions of his sofa. It smelled of something floral, probably aromatherapy. Not relaxers, I was interested to notice. Most therapists I’d seen sprayed that stuff like it was oxygen. “Word of advice, it took the last guy a couple of months to get through all that. Want me to come back?”

  Silence. I shifted on the couch. I wished I had a headband for my curls, but they’d turned me down, figuring I might try to choke somebody with it. They’d trimmed the knots at least, and my spirals looked better since I’d sweet-talked the provisions officer into slipping me some products on credit. I had plenty of time in here, enough to develop a good wash-and-go style.

  “I’ve got the gist,” Yu said, and put the H2 down. He sat back in his chair and gave me the standard assessing look. His was a little sharper than I was used to. “Good morning, Zara. I’m not going to insult you by asking if you know why you’re here.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Ten points. I’m here to tell you my trauma so I can become a useful member of society. Bring up the music, credits roll, we both feel good about ourselves.”

  “You use sarcasm as a shield,” he said. “That’s fine. We all need armor. The world wounds people. My job is to help them get better.”

  “I’m fine,” I muttered.

  “You choose to voluntarily live in dangerous conditions in the Lower Eight, where there’s no reliable enforcement, next to no medical care, and among criminals. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because at least they’re not lying assholes who glide along in life never doing anything! They’re real. The world’s real out there, doc. You should try it.”

  “I have,” he said. “I helped build Benny’s. I was on staff there for four years. I just rotated out six months ago.”

  I went still. I think I actually sat up, in fact. Benny’s—St. Benedict’s Medical Facility—was the shining light of the Lower Eight. It had been built by hand, by charity workers, from the ruins of an old hospital; it charged nobody, ever, and it ran on donations from Paradise. I’d gotten fixed up at Benny’s more than once. So had Derry.

  If he’d worked at Benny’s, he’d been out in the real world. Well, shit. That made it harder to ignore him.

  “So,” I said. “Go on, then. Psych me.”

  Yu laughed and sat back. Crossed his legs. I closed my eyes. The sofa was damn comfy; I could wait him out.

  He let me get good and cozy before he said, “Your mother sent a message from Mars on your behalf. Do you want me to tell you what it said?”

  Mom. I kept my eyes closed and said nothing. I tried to feel nothing, but there it was, that eager little bump. “Nope,” I said. “No point. I know what she told you.”

  “I don’t think you do. She explained about your headaches. How difficult they were for you to handle at such a young age. How the pain caused you to act out, and how nothing seemed to help. True?”

  I’d started getting the headaches around age five, though my memory was fuzzy on details. I just remembered the pain, the screaming, lashing out because nobody, nothing could help. Including all of the Paradise docs, for all their skill. I’d spent the better part of a year feeling like I was dying. Not something you handle well as a little kid.

  “Yeah,” I finally said. “That’s true. But they fixed me.”

  Thanks to the Leviathan, their tech, and eventually, a little dose of their DNA. Being a lab rat was not my favorite thing to remember, either.

  “Eventually,” he said. “But your anger issues remained. They worsened. Why was that, Zara?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t really care. C’mon, Saint Yu, do you really think what happened when I was six is going to fix all my shit?”

  “Your mother clearly loves you,” he said. “And she’s very worried about you. So let’s talk about your father.”

  Let’s not.

  “My mom and dad separated a long time ago,” I said. “Neither one of them has anything to do with me, anyway. I got emancipated, remember?”

  “Yes. Your mother regrets that choice, but—and I’m sure you know this—she had to make a change for your sister’s sake. Your father was a terrible influence, and they were afraid of him. Just as you were.”

  “I’m not afraid of him!”

  “Even when he dragged you off to that faith healer?”

  Time slowed down, and for a second I couldn’t comprehend what he’d just said, because I’d never told anyone about that. It wasn’t in my records, how could he know . . .

  He spoke to Mom, of course. She told him.

  I covered, badly, with a fierce smile. “Faith healers are fakes.”

  “Then why did he take you?”

  I shrugged. “He was sure enough prayer would stop the headaches. Didn’t want me seeing the docs. Only God, all that. Mom’s the one who insisted on going to the hospitals.” And it had cost her, standing up to my old man. I remembered that too.

  “Tell me about the faith healer.”

  “What about it?” My throat had gone very dry, and my hands were cold. I wished I had a blanket. The room had seemed warm before, comforting, but now it felt icy. I was surprised my breath didn’t puff white. “Like I said. Fake.”

  “All right. Just tell me what it was like. I’m interested.”

  “He took me to a church,” I said. “Some little weird place. I think it’s gone now. This fake healer pretended she was pulling evil spirits from my head, he paid her, the end. I had a screaming headache the next morning. I guess it cured him of that obsession.”

  Dr. Yu studied me, but he didn’t say anything, and I wished he would. The world felt soft around me. I didn’t want to think about this. Didn’t want to remember it, but I couldn’t stop now.

  The woman went by the name of Angela, which was probably made up; she had brassy hair and big blue eyes and her skin was so pale you could see veins underneath. Creepy. She wore white, all white. And her voice . . .

  “She said the headaches came from all the sins bottled up inside me,” I said. “She said she’d suffered from them too, and prayed and prayed until one day, God told her to take her sins out. So she grabbed a kitchen knife and slashed herself open and sure enough, she reached in and grabbed a big, black bag full of sins and pulled it out. It broke open and black spiders crawled into her, and she had to vomit them back out. Black goo. Then she passed out.” I swallowed hard, tasting vomit. “When she woke up, she had a healed scar on her side just where Jesus had been stabbed with the spear, and all her headaches and sins were gone.”

  “That sounds terrifying,” Yu said. “Especially for a six-year-old hearing it.”

  “She showed us the scar,” I said. “And then she said she’d take my sins out, but mine were in my head.” Yu said nothing to that. He leaned forward a little, eyes intent on me, and for no reason at all, I went on. “My dad helped her tie me down on the altar. He put his belt around my head to hold it still. And they prayed for a long time, and I kept screaming and screaming, and finally, somebody heard, just before she cut my head open. The police showed up, but Angela untied me and acted like they’d just been praying over me, and I made it all up. Nobody believed me.” I looked hard at Yu. “She was going to cut into my skull and take out my sins and my dad believed her. He’d have let her. He’d have helped. I was six.”

  I heard the anguish in my own voice, and I hated it. This was a long damn time ago. I was over it. Past it. I’d survived everything they’d thrown at me. I couldn’t feel anything about it, not anymore.

  Yu said, very quietly, “Then sending you to the religious camp afterward must have felt like a complete betrayal.”

  That hit me like a slap. I’d never connected those two things before, t
he faith healer, the wilderness camp that had finally destroyed my trust; Dad had always been heavily religious, Mom mildly so, and years lay between those two things happening. Years of Mom trying to keep me safe and help me get better.

  But he was probably right. That camp had been the last straw. The last time I’d trusted either of them, even though the faith healer hadn’t been Mom’s fault, she hadn’t even known about it. She’d thought the Bible camp would help me.

  Not shove me off the cliff.

  I looked at Yu directly and said, “You’re really good at this.”

  “I’m only good at it if it helps,” he said. “But I think you’re starting to understand something about yourself.”

  Yeah. I understood why I craved freedom so much now. Hated being tied down to rules and regs and conventions. It wasn’t about any of those things. It went back to being six, tied hand and foot to an altar, with my father’s belt holding my head still, and being powerless.

  “I don’t know how the hell that helps,” I said. “Understanding something doesn’t change what happened.”

  “It helps you decide whether or not you want to keep making the same decisions, once you understand why you made them.”

  Huh.

  Yu offered me a bottle of water, which I accepted. It helped wash the dry, vomity taste from my throat. I felt . . . cleaner. “Do you want to talk about the camp?” he asked me.

  Turns out, I did.

  The next week my schedule shifted around, so immediately after breakfast I went to work detail: the laundry. It was where all the newbies started, and I’d been on this rotation before. I knew all about sorting, treating, loading, unloading, folding. It was soothing, mindless work, and in my spare moments I daydreamed about being out in the world, free and clear.

  The routine, the boring familiarity of fresh-smelling clothes and the tang of detergent, made me careless.

  I was at the folding table, making sure the edges of a sheet were crisp and even, when something brushed my curls on both sides. Weird sensation, like a breeze, but I felt no puff of air . . . and then a blur skimmed over my vision.